


Unmade

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has a vague memory of Sansa picking a nosegay of those blue flowers, smelling them deeply before holding them out for him to do the same. They'd smelled spicy, a strange contrast to their color, and Jon remembers feeling he might sneeze. And then there was nothing but warmth blooming in his gut, his skin prickling and seeming to shrink on his body, the smell of Sansa's hair, of her skin, of <i>her</i> suddenly catching in his nostrils like a hook. Had he kissed her? Had she kissed him? He can't remember. He only feels as if he's never existed until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmade

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks prompt: Sex pollen - The others have been defeated, spring is here, and jon and sansa stumble upon some flowers in the godswood that have never been seen before.

The good part is: this isn't his fault.

The bad part is: he doesn't remember how it started, and he really, really wants to so he can think back on it once they both come to their senses and she never speaks to him again.

Sansa's mouth is sweet and warm and -- most shockingly -- open under his as he kisses her like he'll die if he doesn't. He's imagined kissing her before, sick fuck that it makes him, but no matter that he had done all manner of things with Ygritte, his imagination had never managed to stretch much farther than sweet, closed-mouth kisses with her and maybe her arms around his neck, her legs stretched elegantly to the side, as Sansa during kissing would be no less a lady than Sansa at any other time.

The girl beneath him now acts like no lady. Her arms are around his neck, to be sure, but they're clinging and pulling rather than circling, tugging his weight down more firmly onto her body. Her legs are spread wide, and even more thrillingly, they're wrapped around his hips with her ankles hooked together firmly at the small of his back. The fabric of her gown is wadded between them, making the press of their hips more frustrating than satisfying, but Jon doesn't care. Being this close to her, this close to _any_ woman again after he'd long resigned himself to a life without, is more than he'd ever dared dream, and the fact that he has no idea how or why it happened makes it no less potent.

They'd been walking through the godswood together when it happened, trading awkward, earnest attempts at conversation, smiling shyly at one another as they continued to reacquaint themselves after so long apart. All those long nights at the Wall when he'd thought back on his family, Sansa had decidedly remained a little girl in his memory, one full of dreamy sighs and romantic songs and sharp rebukes when something displeased her. The Sansa he'd come home to had been tall and willowy, so beautiful he'd been stunned into silence, and so haunted he'd wanted to cry. Being home has been good for her, but still the remnants of the past have lingered, for both of them.

Which makes it all the madder that they've somehow ended up lying entwined on the forest floor in a bed of vivid blue wildflowers, kissing each other for all they’re worth.

Jon has a vague memory of Sansa picking a nosegay of those blue flowers, smelling them deeply before holding them out for him to do the same. They'd smelled spicy, a strange contrast to their color, and Jon remembers feeling he might sneeze. And then there was nothing but warmth blooming in his gut, his skin prickling and seeming to shrink on his body, the smell of Sansa's hair, of her skin, of _her_ suddenly catching in his nostrils like a hook. Had he kissed her? Had she kissed him? He can't remember. He only feels as if he's never existed until now.

"Jon," she mewls, his name on her lips thrilling to his ears. "Please, I need... I need... Oh, I don't know!" She paws at his shoulders, tilting her hips up against his in a desperate bid for something she can't name. Jon's hip surge in answer without his permission and her voice breaks and unravels like a pair of snagged hose. He moves again, and then again, humping at her like an animal with no restraint. He's thought himself a man for so long, with a man's duties and burdens and history. How is it that here with her, he's just a boy again, a lad who's not yet seen his nineteenth year?

"Sansa," he rasps, her name a song. "I could make you feel so good. Let me make you feel good." Everything in his body tells him to take, to seduce, but some smart part of his mind still holds sway. He'll not allow himself to take anything she wouldn't give. No matter how every part of him screams to.

"Yes, please, _please_ , Jon, I want _everything_!"

"Oh thank the gods," he mutters, glad not to be tested on his strength of character. She clings to him when he tries to move down her body, insistent and confused until he disengages her hands with a gentle grip and an encouraging kiss at the slope of her chest. She inhales sharply, poised, waiting, holding very still in anticipation as he tugs ineffectually at the laces of her bodice. Knots and fiddly bits are far too much work in his state.

"Is this your favorite gown?" Her face clouds in confusion at his question.

"What? No. I don't know. I don't _care_."

That's when Jon knows she's gripped by as much fervor as he is. The Sansa he knows would never be so careless with a gown, not least of all because they have so little now, and so much to rebuild. It causes him to quite lose his head.

His knife slides through her laces like they're butter. Sansa gasps, her eyes going wide and dark. Just the tip of her tongue shows pink between her barely parted teeth. Delicately, being careful not to scratch her skin with the blade, Jon lays the shift beneath her bodice open nearly to her waist. The edges of the cloth quiver with her breathing, with the pounding of her pulse. Slowly, with a leisure quite at odds with the urgency of his need, Jon pulls her shift away to each side to reveal her breasts. They're magnificent, sweet and soft and pink-tipped, her nipples like the freshest summer strawberries, her skin like new fallen snow. Like her shift had, they quiver with her breathing, and Jon feels his eyes roll back into his head as he surrenders to the pounding need in him and takes one in his mouth.

She gasps and bucks beneath him, her fingers spearing through his hair to hold his mouth against her. The urgency throbbing within him abates, like getting his mouth on her appeases the burning need to possess he feels, and he takes his time, tasting her, lavishing her, worshipping her with lips and teeth and tongue. Sansa seems to feel none of his patience. She twists, wriggles, pants and mewls, her knees and calves drawn up along his sides. Suddenly Jon wants to feel her skin on his. The sounds of protests she makes as he pulls away from her to sit up might be the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“I’ll be right back, sweet,” he says, unable to control his grin as he presses a kiss to her lips and she clings to him, opening her mouth and licking needily along the seam of his lips. “This will feel better for both of us.”

His words seem to intrigue her. She watches as he sits up and shucks his jerkin with rough, clumsy hands. His hands falter in unlacing his tunic when she props herself up on her elbows to watch with interest. He’d never thought of breasts as mouth-watering before, but gods, hers truly are. His tunic pulls on his head as he reaches back and yanks it forward and off. The look on her face as she looks at his bare chest fills some hole in him he didn’t realize was there. The hole from Ygritte’s arrow, perhaps. Or from the arrow he found in her at the end. For a moment, he preens in her admiration, sitting back and letting her look at him. It doesn’t last long, though, only until she reaches out and dips one curious fingertip into his navel.

Jon falls upon her then with a hunger that would shame him at any other time. There’s no room for shame in him now, though, no room for anything but this driving need to be hers. The taste of her mouth has grown familiar even in this short time, but the drag of her breasts on his bare chest is new. He could lie there forever, pinning her to the earth with his body, surrounded by the spicy-sweet scent of those blue floors, but he needs too much, he needs _more_ , and so wrenches her skirts up between them until only his breeches and her smallclothes separate them and he begins to move.

There’s no skill or finesse to his movements. He’s too desperate to feel, to make _Sansa_ feel. She seems equally desperate. They rock together, panting, groaning, gasping. More than anything, Jon wants to feel her skin all over, he wants to be inside her, but something holds him back despite the driving momentum of his need. It’s the boy in him that hopes there will be more for them, that this strange, sudden need will fade but the new intimacy it’s brought will remain, maybe even grow. It’s that thought that makes him lose the tenuous thread of his control. Like a green boy, he spends extravagantly in his breeches, stuttering against her in spasms of the deepest pleasure he’s ever known. When he returns to himself, she’s still writhing beneath him, reaching for pleasure of her own. Quickly, Jon slides down her body. The smell of her is heady, indolent; he savors it for a moment before he opens his mouth over the thin fabric covering her, fabric that’s already wet with her pleasure. Her surprised squeak fades into a long moan as Jon tastes her through her smallclothes, hoping against hope that someday soon he’ll see what he tastes, that he’ll feel every furl and nook and bit of satiny flesh that her smallclothes keep from him.

She comes with a surprised sound. Whether she’s never felt this sort of pleasure, or whether she’s simply never felt it as strong as this, Jon doesn’t know. To his amazement, she pitches up into another peak quickly, with nothing more than the steady pressure of his tongue on her.

They lie together for several moments, Jon’s head pillowed on the bunch of Sansa’s skirts, her hand resting absently at the back of his head. Then all at once, the momentum that carried them seems to drain away and they begin to rustle awkwardly, neither quite sure what to do. Jon can feel her eyes on him as they stand and begin to fumble and set their clothes aright, but every time he glances at her, her gaze darts away and pink stains her cheeks.

“Oh,” she says with a little laugh. Jon turns to see her holding the sides of her bodice, the grommets dangling with finger-length bits of what’s left of her laces. Jon winces.

“I suppose I got carried away,” he says. Sansa meets his eyes and smiles sheepishly.

“I suppose we both did.”

“Sansa…”

“I’ve never seen these flowers before,” she says, turning away from him to pick up one of the flowers she’d picked before. They’d managed to crush them during their…during their dalliance, and the one Sansa holds is bruised and darkened around the edges of each petal.

“Nor I.”

Sansa smiles, her eyes soft and dreamy, as she holds the flower to her nose as she’d done before. Her cheeks color again, but not, Jon thinks, out of embarrassment this time. When her eyes find his, there’s a spark deep within them again, and for all that Jon just spent until he practically turned inside out, he feels a prickle of desire race up his spine.

“Maybe they’re magic,” she says. A dimple creases her cheek, making her look so sweet and young and impish that Jon’s breath snags in his throat.

“Maybe so,” he manages.

“Will you walk with me tomorrow, Jon?”

Every bit of tension drains out of Jon’s body all at once, so abruptly that he nearly staggers. It’s a dizzying, unaccustomed thing, hope for the future.

“Of course,” he tells her. _Tomorrow_ , he wants to tell her, _the next day, every day, forever_. But he offers her his arm, content for now to wait until tomorrow.


End file.
